Cultural commentary: How civilisation and pandemics have robbed the Luo of their art of elegiac poetry

I am a child of the 80s and I have stubborn memories of that age. Particularly, I have vivid memories of one man. Juma ka Ndiwa, Juma the son of Ndiwa. On many an occasion, children trailed him along village paths. No, he did not offer any free sweets to them. He had none of that! He had a special spot in the hearts of children because he brought colour to their childhood.

A soft-spoken gentleman with a good laugh, Juma was the leader of a folk band. It was in this other life that he transformed into an object of fascination and interest in the eyes of children.

His band had neither guitar nor piano. In fact, his troupe never sang either. The troupe membership had instrumental puritans in its rank and file. All Juma had were drums, shakers, flute, a string puppet and his horn. Of course, he dressed the part insofar as traditional regalia goes. And it was with these marks of distinction that his orchestra warmed its way into the heart of the community.

But Juma’s troupe never ventured out unless occasion called for its presence. Whenever the community was bereaved, Juma’s troupe came out to condole with the people. During such instances, the troupe invited the people to not only mourn but also reflect on the life of the departed soul. This, the troupe did without any utterances. Rather, the invitation was extended through the ‘conversation’ that Juma’s horn, whose tune was well-known across the ridges, had with the drums, shakers, flute and every other traditional instrument at the disposal of the band.

It was little wonder, therefore, that the arrival of Juma and his troupe in a funeral often excited memorable performances of what bookpeople call elegiac poetry. Elegiac is an inflection of the word elegy, a poem that reflects upon death or loss. In a Luo funeral, these oral performances assumed the form of monologues, songs and chants most of which rendered in course of short sprints and mock dances.

It was in such occasions when an elegiac poet would charge ‘dangerously’, a spear and shield in his hand as he cursed and exorcised the spirits of death.

That was the 80s, an age long gone. Come the 90s and 2000s, pandemics visited and changed this aspect of the Luo culture in ways from which it might never recover. To begin with, HIV-AIDS-related deaths that occurred in the community in the early 90s robbed it of some of its best elegiac poets aside from turning death into a commonplace occurrence. These deaths, somehow, numbed the people’s sense of pain and loss. Then Covid-19 happened. It is a human tragedy of our time that has run severe assault on whichever figment of elegiac poetry that was left. Today, with the constrained death, mourning and burial timeline, such oral performances as elegiac poetry have become luxuries. Further, such public health regulations such as social distancing have caused a monumental shift in the way the Luo mourn the dead. How, really, does one effectively perform elegiac poetry with a facemask on? There is yet another new turn. The elegiac poet’s audience has significantly shrunk.

Contemporary Luo funerals have consequently become ‘silent’ and ‘orderly’ affairs devoid of chants, poetic monologues and mock duels. There is no more ‘showmanship’, no one praises their bull at a funeral anymore.

This cultural metamorphosis is not entirely attributable to pandemics, though. Civilisation has a chunk of blame to shoulder in this respect. People have read books, embraced modern religion and travelled the world. In the end, they have turned their backs on ‘old ways’. They have no time for the bushtalk that Lawino of Song of Lawino and Everett Standa of I Speak for the Bush feed them on in their poetic lamentations.

Be that as it may, culturalists should ceaselessly explore the possibility of a cultural redemption or renaissance for Africa. They must pay undivided attention to the question of how African oral arts can be preserved for the consumption of current and future generations.

To hell with all pandemics and civilisation!

When I finally log out of this life, it is the custodian of Juma’s horn who should break the news of my departure. In place of suits, I would love to ‘see’ my people in African outfits. And I would love to ‘hear’ chants and all sheds of elegiac poetry. My agemates must accept the challenge and, age notwithstanding, do short energetic sprints as they pronounce curses upon bad spirits. Isn’t this how we ought to pay tribute to a true son of Africa, an Africanist and a brave son of his people? And can’t culture and civilization co-exist? Perhaps it is time we took writer Chinua Achebe’s timeless wisdom seriously. Where one thing stands, another stands beside it!